My Mother-in-Law Decided to Redesign My Kitchen to Her Taste While I Was at Work

Author Emily TaylorReading 12 minViews 3

30November 2025

Dear Diary,

This morning Eleanor rushed into the hallway, clutching the strap of her handbag, and begged me: Andrew, please keep an eye on my mum while Im at work. You know how much the kitchen remodel set us back and how Im on edge about every scratch on the cabinets. I smiled, lifted my coffee cup and waved her concerns away.

Eleanor, calm down, I said. Mums only staying for a week while the plumbers sort out the burst pipe at her place. Shes not a storm to weather. Shell just make a pot of stew, so you wont have to stand at the stove all night.

Eleanor laughed weakly, planted a quick kiss on my cheek and hurried out, her heart clearly not in the right place. That kitchen is her sanctuary. For three months we worked with a designer, picking a deep matte graphite finish, a natural stone worktop, sleek hidden handles the whole of it a lesson in minimalist luxury that cost us a small fortune in pounds. Every blemish feels like a personal injury.

Mum, Margaret Thompson, arrived yesterday evening a boisterous, opinionated woman with unwavering ideas of what cozy looks like. She surveyed the flat and declared, Young folks have a hospitalclean flat spotless but utterly dull. Eleanor merely nods, attributing it to travel fatigue.

The workday drags on. I keep checking my phone, halfexpecting a call from Eleanor, but I remind myself Im the adult here and promised to watch over the place. Besides, I have a client call at noon and cant afford to be distracted.

At lunch I finally give in and ring her.

Hey, hows Mum? I ask.

Her voice trembles a little. Shes being subtle. She baked a pie and the smells wafting through the whole building.

Subtle? I repeat, trying not to sound amused. Is she fiddling with the oven? The control panel?

She sighs, Shes clever, shes got it under control. Ive got a Zoom meeting, talk later? and hangs up. The phrase being subtle now feels like a threat could mean anything from washing dishes to rearranging furniture.

The rest of the day is a nervous waiting game. I picture oil stains on the matte panels, chips in the stone, melted plastic boards. When I get home, the reality surpasses even my worst daydreams.

As soon as I step out of the lift, a thick scent of frying onions, yeasty dough and, oddly, bleach hits me like a wall. I fumble with the frontdoor key.

Im home! I shout, shedding my shoes.

Silence greets me. Only the cheerful clatter of dishes and Margarets humming drift from the kitchen. I walk down the corridor and see the kitchen door ajar. I push it open and freeze, my bag spilling to the floor.

The kitchen I knew has vanished.

First thing that hits you is colour vivid, blaring, unapologetic. The immaculate stone worktop is now covered with a bright orange tablecloth dotted with oversized sunflowers; the edges hang in uneven waves, hiding the lower drawers.

Margaret, wearing a garish floral apron shes never owned before, spins around from the stove, beaming. Eleanor, dear, Ive been whipping up treats! Look at this, isnt it lively?

I cant find words. My eyes dart over the disaster. Vinyl stickers of butterflies pink, blue, lime, handsized plaster every cabinet door.

Where did those come from? I ask, feeling my left eye twitch.

Oh, I grabbed them at the market while I was out for milk. The flat was all grey and dreary, like a crypt. I thought a splash of summer would do the trick. And Andrew liked them, didnt you?

Andrew steps in, looking guilty, eyes darting to his socks.

Mum, I told you she might not like it he mutters.

Like what? Margaret snaps, waving a spatula. I added warmth! A kitchen cant be a tomb.

My favorite Romanstyle curtains, a deep wet asphalt hue, have vanished, replaced by a frilly white voile with golden embroidered swans.

Where are my curtains? I whisper.

Theyre in the wash, dear. They were looking dull, so I borrowed some from my suitcase. They brighten the room, dont they? she replies, flipping a sizzling pancake.

I lift the edge of the sunflower cloth and find a sticky patch underneath.

Why cover the stone? I protest.

The stone is cold, your elbows freeze! I rolled out some dough and feared a mess, so I tucked the cloth over it. It was cheap, from the discount store, but looks splendid.

My temper erupts like a volcano. I glance at the fridge a twometre steel behemoth I forbade anyone to touch now plastered with magnets of pigs, cats and Golden Ring towns.

Theyre mine, Margaret declares proudly. I brought them from home. The fridge needed personality.

I take a deep breath, forcing calm.

Andrew, can I have a word in the bedroom? I say, voice icecold.

He follows me, and Margaret calls after us, Dont whisper, love, the foods getting cold!

In the bedroom, I close the door and turn to him.

You promised to keep an eye on her.

I was on a call, then I stepped away for water, and the butterflies appeared. I thought shed be pleased. I couldnt tear them down, shed be hurt.

The stickers could damage the finish! The glue will eat the softtouch coating! I snap.

He looks bewildered. I cant confront her. Shes your mother, shes fragile. Lets wait a week, shell be gone.

A week? I gasp. I cant drink coffee surrounded by golden swans and plastic butterflies for a week!

He pleads, Please, Ill get you a spa voucher. No drama, just a quiet week while shes away for repairs.

Seeing his desperation, my anger softens into a dull ache.

Fine. I wont make a scene now. Ill remove the cloth. Ill put the curtains back this evening. Ill say Im allergic to synthetic fabrics.

We return to the kitchen. Margaret has already set the table. Under the sunny tablecloth sit steaming bowls of borscht and a mound of deepfried pastry.

Take a seat, you two! she commands. More sour cream?

I sit, appetite gone, but the aroma is tempting. I pick up a spoon, trying not to stare at a caterpillar sticker right in front of me.

Margaret, thank you for dinner, I begin diplomatically. But regarding the décor I have a very specific taste. I prefer a clean, uncluttered space.

Thats not taste, thats depression, love, she retorts, biting into a pastry. A woman needs flowers, frills thats feminine energy. Your flat looked like an operating theatre. A man feels uneasy in such sterility. Right, Andrew?

Andrew chokes on his soup.

Mum, why? I whisper.

She sighs, Your shampoos are all in identical bottles, I labelled them. I added a fluffy pink rug for warmth, replaced the glass partition with a dolphinthemed curtain. It all makes the place feel livedin.

I rise slowly, Thanks, it was delicious.

She whispers to Andrew, See? Shes exhausted, nothing makes her happy anymore. She needs vitamins.

The bathroom, once a sleek whitemarble sanctuary, now resembles a nursery. A toxicpink shag rug sprawls on the floor, dispensers for shampoo and soap are tagged with permanentmarker labels: FOR HAIR, FOR BODY, SOAP. The glass screen is draped in a cheap bluedolphin plastic curtain, bolted to the tiles.

I sit on the tub edge, cover my face with my hands, feeling a wave of helplessness. It isnt just bad taste; its an invasion under the guise of care.

After ten minutes, Andrew peeks in.

Ill sort a hotel for Mum. A decent one with breakfast. Ill pay.

I cant live in this circus, Andrew. Shes ruined my things. Look at the markers on the dispensers! They wont come off!

Ill clean with alcohol, dont panic.

Its not about the alcohol. Its that she treats my home like a playground, like a cat marking territory.

Suddenly the kitchen erupts with a crash, shattered glass, and Margarets shrill scream.

Andrew and I rush in. The scene is chaotic: a heavy oak shelf that once hung above the table has toppled, taking with it three flower pots Margaret had apparently decided to display. Water pools on the floor, shards of glass glitter.

I was only trying to water a geranium, she stammers, clutching her chest. I thought the shelf was sturdy.

I point to the wall where the shelf was anchored. Large holes gape in the plaster.

The shelf was meant for a couple of picture frames, not for three pots of soil, I state calmly. The plaster is decorative; fixing it will cost as much as a small car. Well need a full rebuild.

Margaret wafts backward, eyes wide. Everything you own is flimsy! In my day furniture was built to last. This this is cardboard!

I step over the broken pieces, run a finger along the torn edge of the wall.

Its a premium decorative plaster, worth a fortune per square metre. Restoring it invisibly is impossible without redoing the whole wall.

She collapses into a sob. Do we have to rip it all out? Maybe just a picture or a rug?

No, I say firmly. Andrew, gather Mums belongings.

He? both ask.

Were calling a taxi. Ill book the Central Hotel; its decent. Mum will stay there until her own repairs finish. She wont set foot in this flat again.

Are you evicting my mother? she gasps, clutching her chest. Because of a hole in the wall?

Andrew looks pale, eyes flicking between the ruined wall and my stern face. He knows his mothers temperament; arguing now would be futile.

Mum, youre right, you did go too far, he says quietly. The kitchens been wrecked.

I was only trying to make it cosy! she shrieks. You ungrateful children!

Fine, pack up, I reply. Andrew will help. Ill start pulling down the butterfly stickers.

Margaret throws a fit, grabs the sunflower cloth, the magnets, the dolphin curtain, and stuffs everything into a suitcase, wailing about the snake under the bed and the disgrace of my sons house.

I stand in the doorway, watching Andrew lug the suitcase out. I feel no shame, only a quiet sorrow for the damaged wall, my nerves, and my husband caught in the middle. I realise that swallowing this now would only breed more resentment.

When the last door shuts, a ringing silence settles over the flat.

I walk back to the kitchen, assess the battlefield: splintered floorboards, gaping holes, remnants of glue where butterflies once clung, the lingering scent of fried pastry. I fetch trash bags, a step ladder, adhesive remover and a putty knife.

I carefully peel off the remaining stickers; fortunately the highquality finish releases the glue without damage. I strip the garish bathroom curtain, reinstall the original glass screen after wiping away the marker from the dispensers, and toss the pink rug.

Two hours later, the apartment looks almost as it did before, save for the wall scars reminding me of the unwanted coziness. Andrew slips back in, soft as a mouse.

I booked the hotel, shes still ranting on the phone, telling everyone shes been kicked out in the cold. Its 20°C outside, mind you.

Let her rant, I shrug. At least shes not here.

He sighs, Im sorry, love. I should have stopped her earlier. I grew up with her running the household, reorganising my room, tearing down my posters because they were ugly. I thought it was normal.

I look at him, the first warmth of the evening reaching my eyes.

This isnt care, Andrew. Its control. Im glad you finally see the difference. Well have the wall repaired Ive already found a tradesperson for tomorrow. From now on, visits only on holidays, and never overnight.

He nods. Agreed.

He pulls the rubbish bag, scoops the leftover pastries, and asks, Want a pizza?

Sure, with double cheese. Lets fling the windows open and air out this cozy.

We sit on the lounge floor, sharing takeaway pizza as the night breeze sweeps through, carrying away the smell of fried oil and cheap perfume. The wall still bears its wounds, but I know theyre fixable. Most importantly, I defended my boundaries and finally found a true ally in my husband.

Lesson learned: love may come wrapped in good intentions, but when it crosses into control, you must draw the line even if it means asking the very people you cherish to step outside your own home.

To Stay Human It was a bleak and blustery mid-December afternoon in the town of Newbridge. The snow barely covered the ground, and the local bus station, with its ceaseless draughts, felt like the last stronghold of frozen time. Scents of buffet coffee, disinfectant, and fading hopes lingered in the air. The glass doors banged in the wind, ushering in another wave of shivering faces flushed from the cold. Margaret hurried through the waiting hall, double-checking the time on the station clock. She was only here in passing—a quick business trip to a neighbouring town had ended ahead of schedule, and now she had to reach home, two connections ahead. This bus terminal was the first and dreariest stop. Her tickets were for the evening coach. With three hours to kill, she felt the damp boredom of the place seep into the lining of her expensive coat. It had been a decade since she’d last seen these parts; everything appeared shrunken, faded, slowed down, and impossibly distant from her current life. Her heels tapped sharply on the tiled floor: an out-of-place figure—expensive sand-coloured wool coat, flawless hairstyle intact despite the journey, leather crossbody bag. Her analytic gaze swept the room: a kiosk attendant bored over her phone, an old couple quietly sharing a bun, a man in a battered parka staring into space. She felt the nearby eyes—not hostile, just registering: stranger. And she silently agreed. She only needed to endure this, to push through space and time like a bad dream. By tomorrow morning, she’d be back in her cosy city flat, warm and far away from the bone-chilling gloom of the provinces. Just as she was deciding where to sit, her path was blocked. A man. Sixty-something, maybe older. Weathered face, ordinary, the kind of face you don’t remember. His coat was patched but clean, and his ushanka hat dangled from his fingers. He hadn’t stepped in front of her; he just seemed to materialise from the grey air. He spoke in a soft, oddly flat voice. “Excuse me… miss… could you tell me where to get a drink of water?” The question hung awkwardly in the air, odd as the scene itself. Automatically, barely glancing at him, Margaret gestured towards the kiosk with its weary vendor and rows of gleaming bottles. “Over there. At the kiosk,” she said, starting to move past. Annoyance, sharp and petty, pricked at her. “To get a drink.” And “miss.” Archaic, out of place—couldn’t he see for himself? He nodded, murmured thanks—yet didn’t move. He stood, head bowed, as though gathering the strength for a few paces. His hesitation, his helplessness before a trivial task made Margaret, almost past him now, pause. She saw—not his clothes, not his age. She saw beads of sweat rolling down his temples, even in the chill hall. Fingers kneading the old hat in spasms. Lips pale, his glassy gaze lost somewhere near his shoes, unseeing. Something shifted inside her. Her haste, her irritation, her sense of superiority—all crumpled in an instant. No time for thought; something primal took over. “Are you all right?” Her own voice surprised her, gentler, without its usual metallic ring. She didn’t dodge him now, but stepped in. He lifted his eyes. Not pleading—just confusion and defeat. “Just—dizzy… Blood pressure, maybe,” he whispered, eyelids fluttering as if remaining upright cost him all his strength. Margaret acted on instinct. She took his arm—a steady, but careful grip. “Don’t stand. Let’s sit, here…” Her voice was quiet but commanding, guiding him to a nearby bench. She crouched down before him, forgetting her appearance. “Sit back, breathe. Steady now. Don’t rush.” She hurried to the kiosk, returned with a water bottle and plastic cup. “Here, sip this.” From her coat pocket she produced a paper tissue, gently dabbing his brow. Her entire being was focused on this man: his ragged breaths, the stuttering pulse beneath her fingers. “Help, please!” Her strong, clear call sliced through the station’s stupor. Not panic, but command. “He needs an ambulance!” Suddenly, the station came alive. The old couple were first to react, a woman bringing tablets. The man who’d been dozing dialled emergency services. The kiosk attendant emerged. Others, previously invisible, gathered round. They became a community, united by a sudden crisis. Margaret, beside him, kept murmuring reassurance, hands clasping his cold fingers. For that moment, she was neither a high-powered businesswoman nor an outsider. She was simply a fellow human being. And it was enough—more than enough. Then, in a breath of cold December air and the burst of a siren, two paramedics hurried in, blue jackets streaked with red crosses. Their arrival reset the room. People parted to make way, silence fell. Margaret met the paramedic’s professional, weary eyes. “What happened?” asked the woman, kneeling by the man, her moves swift and precise. Margaret reported clearly, no longer metallic but drained with relief. “He felt faint, dizzy, sweating a lot. Said it was his blood pressure. He’s had water and a tablet. Seems stable.” As she spoke, the other medic took his vitals. The man could now answer softly: name, age, medications. The paramedic nodded to Margaret. “You did the right thing with the water. We’ll take him to the hospital for a check and a drip.” Helping him up, the man turned, searching for Margaret. Their eyes met. “Thank you, love,” he rasped, gratitude shining through. “You… might have saved my life.” Margaret said nothing, only nodded, empty now where adrenaline had burned. She watched them leave, the white ambulance looming through the doors as the cold whistled in. Someone grumbled, “Close the door, it’s freezing!” The door slammed. The siren faded, and the lounge eased back into sluggish waiting. People dispersed, their slow movements resuming. Margaret remained standing. On her hand, red lines—the pressure from her bag. Her hair undone, coat rumpled and stained from kneeling. She wandered to the cramped bathroom, bracing herself with cold water. The cracked mirror reflected smudged makeup, tired eyes, dishevelled hair, a face she’d not recognised in years. Not polished by success, but alive—with worry, compassion, exhaustion. She dried off and returned to the bench, still with an hour to wait. From the same kiosk, Margaret bought a water bottle—this time for herself. The water was cool, unremarkable, but now seemed the most important thing in the world. Not just a drink, but a connection. A simple, human connection, born at the very moment someone stops seeing another as background or nuisance—just as a person. She noticed details now: the kiosk attendant bringing tea to an old lady; a man helping a mother with a pram. These small kindnesses built a picture—not bleak, but gentle and vital. Margaret checked her phone. A work group chat pinged—some issue with reports. Two hours ago it would have mattered. Now she typed: “Postpone till tomorrow. It’ll be fine.” And switched off notifications. Today she remembered an old truth. The world needs masks: professional, prosperous, impassive—they’re costumes for each scene. But it’s dangerous if, underneath, your skin forgets how to breathe. If you start believing you’re just the mask. Today, that mask cracked, and something real escaped—a breathless fear for another. The readiness to kneel on a dirty floor, unabashed. To be just “the young woman” who helped, not Ms Parker, Head of Department. To stay human doesn’t mean shedding all masks. It means remembering what’s beneath them. And, sometimes, as today, letting the real, vulnerable self come into the light—just to reach out a hand.

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned — “These clothes belong to my mum. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, sounding like a stranger. “We need to get rid of them, Dave. They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need the space for our winter duvets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere.” Olga continued, practically, pulling modest jumpers, skirts, and summer dresses belonging to her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Margaret Ferguson had always hung up her clothes with care to keep them neat—something she’d taught her only son. Olga, on the other hand, forever had chaos in her wardrobes, diving in each morning to hunt for the right blouse, always complaining she had nothing to wear, then furiously attacking the crumpled clothes with her steamer; everything looked like it had been chewed up and spat out. It had only been three weeks since Dave said his final goodbye to his mum. Margaret had needed care—mostly palliative by that point—and peace and quiet. Stage four cancer had taken her in just a month after Dave brought her home. That evening, coming back from work, he found her things strewn in the hallway like unwanted junk, and he froze. Was that it? Was this how his mother’s memory would be treated? Dumped and instantly forgotten? “Why are you staring at me like I’m the enemy, Dave?” Olga shot back. “Don’t touch these things,” Dave hissed through gritted teeth, so furious he lost feeling in his hands for a moment. “What do we want with all this old rubbish?” Olga snapped, growing aggravated. “Want to turn the house into a museum or something? Your mother’s gone, accept it! You should’ve looked after her like this when she was alive—maybe visited more, actually known how ill she was!” Her words hit Dave like a whip. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice trembling. Olga scoffed, “Yeah right. Madman…” Everyone who disagreed with Olga was automatically ‘mental’. Still in his coat, Dave marched to the corridor cupboard, pushed open the top doors, climbed onto a stool, and fetched one of their checkered moving bags—there were about seven from their last move. Carefully, he folded and packed all his mum’s belongings: her jacket, her shoes, each piece handled with care, placed just so. His three-year-old son toddled alongside, dropping his toy tractor into the bag for good measure. Finally, Dave rummaged in the hall drawer, found a key, and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” Dave smiled sadly, gripping the front door handle. “I’ll be back soon, mate, go to mummy.” “Wait!” Olga called, suddenly anxious. “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, but I’m full up on your attitude towards my mum,” he shot back. “Oh come off it, Dave,” Olga grumbled. “Where are you off to at this hour?” Without responding, Dave left, bag in hand. He started the car, leaving the drive, heading towards the motorway. The stream of cars drowned out every other thought: work stress, holiday plans, the silly Facebook pages he liked to read to unwind. Everything shrank before the heavy, slow-moving thought sludging through his head like a tortoise: only a few things really mattered—his kids, his wife, and his mum. He blamed himself for her death—always busy, always something getting in the way. She’d never wanted to trouble him, so he’d postponed visits, called less, listened less and less. Three-quarters of the way there, he stopped at a roadside diner for a bite, then drove the next three hours straight. Once, he noticed the sunset—a blood-red split in the western sky, like the sun fighting not to slip off the edge of the world. In darkness, he reached the quiet village, dented lanes, and eventually pulled up outside his childhood home. In the dark, everything was unfamiliar. Dave fiddled with the gate, lighting the way with his phone; five missed calls from his wife. Not tonight. Let the mobile stay on silent. Blossoms from the dying cherry tree gave off a sweet, heavy smell, night moths flitting through its ghostly pale petals. Cloudy windows reflected the night sky. Dave unlocked the first door, groped for a switch, and a dusty bulb flickered on. By the door, his mum’s old garden slippers waited. By the next door, leading into the house, her battered blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—the ones he’d bought her for Christmas eight years ago. He paused, staring at them, then shook himself, opened the door, and stepped inside. Hi Mum, were you waiting for me? No—no one in this house waited for him any more. The air held the smell of old pine furniture and a trace of damp. The house was quick to get musty; you had to light the fire constantly, or mould crept in. On the dressing table: her hairbrush, a plain set of cosmetics, a bag of value pasta. In the lounge, the only new thing stood out—a sofa Dave had bought with the telly for his mum. The kitchen fridge, wide open, was empty—no one left to live here now. Mum’s old bedroom opposite—her bed piled with pillows, covered with a crocheted throw. Dave sat on the edge. Once, that had been his room. Mum and Dad used the bigger room down the hall. His brother’s bed had been tucked against the wall, with a desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine occupied that space—Mum adored sewing. She’d swapped the spare bed for a wardrobe, her wardrobe. Dave sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe like a ghost. His eyes glazed over. He put his head in his hands, hunched over, face on his knees, and began to sob—huge, choking, hidden sobs. He sobbed for all the words he’d never said as he sat beside her, holding her hand on her last day. He’d been struck dumb, a statue, watching her fade, a thousand unspoken words stranded in his throat. Mum had whispered, “Don’t look at me like that, Dave… I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her—for his carefree childhood, for her kindness, for sacrifices and love, for always being there, for that feeling of being safe, always welcome, no matter what mistakes he’d made. But he’d just sat, stone-faced, unable to find the words. Sometimes it’s impossible—everything sounds dated, overblown, clumsy to a modern ear. Our times have lost the language for real emotion; it’s all cynicism and sarcasm these days. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep on her bed without undressing, careful not to disturb the neatly made sheets. He found a blanket on the chair. He hadn’t expected sleep to be so easy. In the morning, as always, he woke at seven on the dot—no matter how late he’d stayed awake. Dave collected the bag from the car. Birches lined the lane, dressed in new green leaves, standing like young debutantes of spring. Their branches soaked up the sun, ready to warm the earth. He breathed in the birdsong, the fresh air—so lucky to have grown up here, not in the city. He stretched, loosened up, and hauled the bag to his mum’s wardrobe. One by one, Dave unpacked his mother’s clothes, carefully laying them on the shelves. Hung the dresses and blouses, her shoes lined up below. When he finished, he stepped back. For a moment, he saw her right there, beaming at him, dressed in one of those blouses. She always smiled with that mum’s smile, saying “I love you” without words. He ran a hand over the hanging row of clothes, then hugged the whole lot, breathing in that familiar scent… Stood there, lost. He had no idea what would happen to these things—just that for now, they stayed. Eventually, he remembered the present and rang work. “Hi, Tony, I can’t make it today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a brief message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home this evening. Love you.” Flowers edged the garden path; daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, lilies of the valley near the gooseberry bushes. He gathered a bunch of each, splitting them into three bouquets—there were three waiting for him at the churchyard. Popping by the village shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten. Grabbed some milk, a roll, and a chocolate bar. “Oh, morning, Dave! Back again already?” said the shop lady. “Yeah…just visiting Mum,” he said, looking away. “Right. Want any crumbly cheese? Fresh in from the farmer. Your mum always had some.” He looked at her. Was she having a go? No, just a kind-hearted soul. “Erm, go on then. And you—how are you, Irene?” She waved it off. She’d been Margaret’s mate. “Don’t ask, love. My Terry’s a lost cause—he drinks and drinks.” He ate his breakfast at the graveyard, dividing the bouquets over three gravestones: daffodils, lilies, tulips; brother, father, mother. Brother went first—a fall from a roof, just twenty years old. Dad, five years ago. Now Mum. He left them chocolate, broke off some cheese for Mum. Their faces smiled at him from the photographs on the headstones. He talked to them in his mind. Remembered the mischief with his brother. Remembered going fishing at dawn with Dad, expertly casting the line. Remembered Mum yelling across the lane, “Daaave! Dinner!” in a voice that carried for miles—how he used to cringe in front of his mates. How he wished she’d call him like that now. Dave stood, stroked the wooden cross on his mother’s grave, the earth still fresh and new. “Mum, I’m sorry… I didn’t look after you well enough. We were living our own lives, but without you, it’s just empty. There’s so much I want to say to you, and to you too, Dad. You were the best parents in the world—I’m so grateful… How did you do it? Me and Olga, we’re just selfish. Me, me, me, mine, I want… Thank you for everything. And you too, Charlie, mate, thank you.” Time to go. Dave walked down the path, picking wild grass and chewing the soft stalks. On the first street, he ran into Terry, Irene’s son. Already drunk and down on his luck. “Oi, Dave! Back again?” Terry slurred. “Yeah… Came to see the folks. You still drinking?” “’Course, it’s a holiday.” “What holiday?” Unexpectedly, Terry pulled a tiny page-a-day calendar from his shorts, torn to yesterday’s date. He flipped it. “World Turtle Day! See?” he said proudly. Dave smirked, “Right. Listen, Terry… Look after your mum, she’s a diamond. And she won’t be here forever. Remember that.” He walked on, leaving Terry looking confused. After a moment, Terry called out, “Yeah, alright, mate. Take care, Dave!” “Yeah, goodbye,” Dave replied, not looking back.

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, reviews, subscriptions, and a HUGE thanks for all your generous donations from me and my five feline companions. Please feel free to share any stories you enjoy on social media—every little bit brings joy to this author! My daughter came home late from her shift at the hospital, where she works as a nurse in trauma care. She spent ages in the shower, then wandered into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are some meatballs and pasta in the frying pan,” I offered, trying to read her face for clues, “Long day, Lucy? You look shattered. Is everything alright?” “I’m not hungry. I’m already hideous as it is, and if I eat now, no one will ever look at me,” Lucy muttered darkly, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Don’t talk nonsense,” I protested, “There’s nothing wrong with you, love. You’ve got lovely eyes, and your nose and lips are perfectly fine. Stop being so hard on yourself!” “It’s just… all my friends are married already, and I’m not. The only men interested in me are the awful ones. The ones I like don’t even notice I exist. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” she frowned, looking to me for answers. “You just haven’t met your person yet, that’s all! Your time will come,” I tried to reassure her, but Lucy just grew more upset. “My eyes are small, my lips are thin, and just look at my nose! If we had money, I’d get plastic surgery. But we’re poor, so I’ve decided I’ll marry some guy with a disability. There are men at the hospital who’ve lost limbs after car accidents—most of their girlfriends leave them. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three, I can’t wait around forever!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that,” I blurted out in distress, “Look at your father—his legs aren’t the best, either. I was hoping at least my son-in-law would be able to help in the garden at the allotment. It really would make a difference. How are we supposed to manage otherwise?” Then I caught myself and rushed to explain, “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy, but why tie yourself to someone with a disability? What about Alex from next door? He’s a good lad, has had his eye on you for ages. He’s strong, your babies would be healthy, and you know—” “Mum, please!” Lucy protested. “Your Alex can’t hold down a job, he loves a drink, and what would I even talk to him about?” “You don’t have to chat much! I’ll tell him to go dig over the garden and then come in for tea. Or I’ll send him to the shop. He’s a good sort, really. Maybe you two would get on?” I suggested hopefully, but Lucy just pushed her tea away and stood up. “I’m off to bed, Mum. Honestly! I thought you at least believed there was nothing wrong with me, but you’re just like everyone else—you think I’m an ugly duckling, too.” “Lucy, darling, don’t be silly,” I called after her, but Lucy just waved her hand. “I’m done, Mum!” And she shut her bedroom door right in my face. She lay awake for hours, thinking about the young man who’d arrived at the hospital recently. He’d lost his leg below the knee—a slab had crushed him in a derelict building due for demolition. Nobody came to visit this young fellow, not even thirty, and at first, after surgery, he’d look at Lucy with pleading eyes, clutch her hand. But then, once the shock wore off, he just stared at the ceiling, silent and withdrawn. For some reason, Lucy felt sorrier for him than for the others—maybe because no one ever came to see him. “Do you think I’ll walk again?” he asked, not looking at her. “Of course you will, you’ll heal—you’re young,” Lucy said, trying to sound certain. “They all say that. Try living without a leg—see how it feels,” he snapped, turning his face to the wall like it was her fault. “Well, why did you go in there, anyway?” she fired back. “Thought I saw something,” he muttered, and now whenever she entered his room, he’d turn to face the wall. Lucy couldn’t help but notice his eyes—icy blue and cold, but his face was handsome. It seemed so unfair, what had happened to him… “You pity me, don’t you? I can see it,” he said, catching her gaze. “That’s all anyone can do now—pity me. No one could ever love me like this.” “No one loves girls like me, either, even with both arms and legs, because I’m just not right. No one even pities me—maybe I’d be better off missing a leg, at least then someone would feel sorry for me,” Lucy shot back, eyes burning with self-pity. But then, for the first time, Michael (that was his name) smiled at her. “You’re mad—you think you’re not attractive? I’d give anything to be with someone like you, honestly,” he said quietly. Lucy looked at him, bright-eyed, and for some reason, she believed him. So she blurted out, “Well, what if I chose you? Would you marry me?” Then, when he just stared at her, speechless, she added, “If you don’t answer, I’ll take that as a no!” She stood, headed for the door, her feelings hurt. Michael struggled up on his elbows, trying to sit up as if to chase after her, then, remembering the leg, he called out, “Lucy, marry me! I promise, soon no one will even guess about my leg. I’ll recover. Please, don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears—but somehow, she knew this was it. The One. It didn’t matter about noses or eyes or missing legs—they’d found each other. Her time had come, just like her mother had said… Michael threw himself into rehabilitation with determination. He wanted to marry this wonderful girl, to be strong for their future together. He longed for Lucy to feel needed and cherished. He needed her—he wanted nothing more than to live by her side. “Are you in love at last, sweetheart?” I asked her quietly one day, “Look at you, all glowing—didn’t you say you weren’t pretty?” Lucy didn’t try to deny it. She walked on air, her biggest wish now that Michael would manage with his prosthesis. They walked together more and more, starting in the hospital courtyard, then through the snow-covered, twinkling pre-Christmas streets… “That’s where the building collapsed on me,” Michael showed her one day. “Why did you go in there, anyway?” Lucy asked. “You’ll laugh—I saw a puppy in there, a black and white stray. I thought he’d freeze to death. I wanted to take him home—didn’t want to be alone anymore.” They saw a skinny dog nearby, watching them warily. “That’s probably him!” Michael grinned, and the dog trailed them all the way home. “At least Lucy’s found herself a lovely husband—good looking, younger than her, with his own flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends teased at the wedding. Lucy’s mother shed a tear when Michael called her “Mum.” Michael was raised in care and had no family of his own. He was kind, thoughtful—and most importantly, they truly loved each other. Allotment gardening didn’t matter anymore—though Michael took on every task happily and made a success of them all. Now Lucy, Michael, and their dog Kuzma live together. Soon, they’ll be four—their daughter is on the way! Never give in to despair. If you do, you might miss your chance at happiness. After all, life’s greatest beauty is its unpredictability…

“Don’t Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned “These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth have you packed them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly unfamiliar. “We’ll get rid of them. Why do we need this stuff, Mark? They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter duvets and spare pillows—the house is a mess as it is.” With purposeful efficiency, Olga continued stripping the modest jumpers, skirts, and light dresses of her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Mrs. Valerie Harris had always hung her clothes neatly, maintaining their good condition—a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. But Olga’s wardrobes were chaos; every morning, she’d dive among the shelves searching for a top, complain there was nothing to wear, and then attack crumpled shirts with her steamer—the clothes always looking as though a cow had chewed and spat them out. It had only been three weeks since Mark laid his mum to rest. Valerie had required medical care—though it was already a lost cause—and peace. Stage four cancer took her frightfully fast. Mark brought his mother home; she faded within a month. Returning from work that day, he found her belongings tossed carelessly in the hallway, as if they were useless rubbish. Stunned, he wondered—was that it? Was this how his mum would be treated? Thrown out—forgotten without a second thought? “Why are you staring at me like Thatcher at the miners?” Olga retorted, stepping back. “Don’t touch those things,” Mark hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely, he momentarily lost feeling in his hands and feet. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—what do we need this tat for?” Olga snapped, her temper rising. “What is this, a shrine? Your mum’s gone—face it! Maybe if you’d cared that much when she was alive—visited a bit more—you’d have known how ill she was!” Mark recoiled at those words as if whipped. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he forced out over the tension in his throat. “Whatever. Loony.” Olga scoffed. In Olga’s mind, anyone who dared to disagree with her was automatically mad. Mark, still in his shoes, went to the hallway cupboard, opened the top doors, and climbing on a stool, fetched one of their checkered moving bags—of which they had about seven. He packed all Valerie’s things, not haphazardly, but folded each item into tidy rectangles. Her coat went on top, and her shoes in a separate bag. Their three-year-old son bustled around helping, even tossing his toy tractor into the bag. Mark rummaged for a key in the hall drawer and dropped it in his pocket. “Daddy, where are you going?” Mark managed a bitter smile as he grasped the door handle. “I’ll be back soon, champ. Go to your mum.” “Wait!” Olga called, appearing in the lounge doorway, “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, I’m full up with your attitude towards my mum.” “Oh come on, there’s no need for this drama. Take your coat off—where do you think you’re off to at this hour?” Without looking back, Mark left with the bag, got in his car, and drove towards the ring road. He kept his mind blank, let the motorway drone drown his thoughts—work, summer holiday plans, those funny Facebook pages he browsed to relax—all shrank to insignificance. Only one slow, heavy thought crawled through his mind: the real priorities. Everything else burned away. The only things remaining untarnished were the kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself—hadn’t seen enough, never home in time, always some excuse. His mum hadn’t wanted to be a burden, so he’d postponed visits, rang less, cut their chats short. After driving for some hours, Mark pulled up along a country lane by the family home where he’d grown up. Artist: Shaun Ferguson It was pitch black. He fumbled with the garden gate, used his phone screen to light the way—five missed calls from Olga. No, not tonight. The night air was heavy and sweet with the dying scent of cherry blossom, luring moths in the dark. Old slippers stood by the porch, and, by the inner door, Valerie’s worn blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—he’d given them to her years ago. The air inside smelt faintly damp, the sort of musty old furniture scent you never forget. In the lounge, the new sofa and telly he’d bought her stuck out, the fridge door ajar reminded him nobody lived here anymore. Her bedroom—his old one as a boy—was just across. He sat on the bed. The wardrobe there was once his brother’s. Now, the rail held his mum’s things. Mark stared at it as if expecting his mother to appear. He dropped his head in hands, crumpling onto the pillows—and he wept. He wept for the words he never said, for the last time her hand squeezed his, for all the “thank yous” he never voiced—for love, for sacrifices, for making him feel safe and secure. For the strength she gave him. And now, at the moment for words, he’d found none. All he thought of seemed pompous and outdated; nothing would do. Today, people had a vocabulary for cynicism and bravado, not for real feelings. Mark crashed out on the bed, not undressing, not wanting to disturb her orderly world. Miraculously, he slept soundly and woke with the dawn, just as he always had. He put everything back in her wardrobe, folding things neatly the way she liked, hung up her dresses, arranged her shoes. He stepped back, pictured her in this room, in these outfits, that warm, loving smile. He hugged her blouses, breathed in their scent, and stood there, lost in memory. Only later did he fish out his phone. “Morning, Steve. Can’t come in today—family emergency. Will you manage? Thanks.” And to Olga he texted: “Sorry I snapped. Will be home tonight. Love you.” Outside, daffodils and tulips flowered along the garden path. Mark picked them, plus a bunch of lilies of the valley, and made three small posies—for the cemetery, for his brother, dad, and mum. He grabbed breakfast at the village shop. “Mark! Back again?” the shopkeeper called. “Just visiting mum,” he mumbled. “Want some fresh Lancashire cheese? Your mum’s favourite.” He wavered, then nodded, “Alright, thanks, Mrs. Harris. How’s your lot?” She waved him off—her son was still a dead loss, always drinking. Mark ate at the gravesides—flowers and chocolate laid for each loved one. His brother had died young, his father five years ago, and now his mum. He broke off some cheese and chocolate for each stone, smiling to their photos. Recalling mischief with his brother, fishing at dawn with his dad, and his mum calling him in for tea—her voice unmistakable for miles. Oh, to hear it again. Standing by Valerie’s grave, its earth still fresh, he whispered: “Sorry, Mum. I should’ve done more. Life was meant to go on—but without you, it feels so empty. I wish I’d told you just how great you both were, and how lucky I am to be your son. Thank you for everything. I wish I’d been better—forgive me.” Soon it was time to go. Heading home, Mark ran into his old mate on the lane, already half-cut. “Oh, Mark! You back again?” the lad slurred. “Yeah. Family visit. You still drinking?” “Course I am—it’s World Turtle Day!” he exclaimed, waving a calendar scrap. Mark smirked, “Take care of your mum, mate. She’s gold—and she won’t be around forever.” He left his friend standing there, speechless, calling after him, “Alright, Mark. Take care, pal.” “Goodbye,” Mark replied, not looking back.